Lily Potter and the Den of Snakes
by A.Small.Bright.Thing
Summary: Life should be great, right? My Dad vanquished the Dark Lord, my Mum's a Quidditch legend... It should be great. But it isn't. My Head of House is a total vampire, my only friend is a House Elf, and now, to top it off, I'm probably going crazy. Oh joy.
1. Lily Potter and the Pissy Pants Incident

Prologue:

Lily Potter and the Pissy-Pants Incident

* * *

_"I will never admit to peeing my pants! NEVER!" - Lily Luna Potter_

_

* * *

_

I woke up screaming.

Face-down on the floor, I struggled violently with the hands that grasped my throat, trying to choke off my air supply.

That is, until I realized it was just the quilt.

The worst part of all of this - the nightmare, the almost-peeing-my-pants, the oh-merlin-the-quilt-is-choking-me - is that it was happening for the third time this week. And it was only Wednesday.

"Pissing your pants?"

James, who'd suddenly appeared in the doorway, was looking down at me, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts emblazoned with the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes insignia and an amused smirk.

"_No," _I replied, perhaps a little too forcefully. The quilt beneath, around, and on top of me was beginning to feel suspiciously damp. But he didn't need to know that. "I _didn't_. What're you doing up, anyway?" I countered accusatorially. "It's almost one."

"Well, _somebody _has to wait up for Mum and Dad to get home."

"Don't you mean that _somebody _has to wait up until his siblings are asleep before he can stuff all of Mum's hidden Fizzing Whizbees into his mouth at once?"

"_What_ - no - how'd you - "

It was my turn to smirk. "You're hovering four inches off the ground."

Mum would've been surprised to learn that James knew the word he said next, which he followed up with a guilty look and an "I mean, stuck. In a hole. Stuck in a hole."

"Whatever." I rolled my eyes. "Mum's gonna kill you if you can't get down before they come home."

James shrugged and floated over to my side. It looked like he was trying to swim without water. I inwardly hoped that he wouldn't suddenly fall backwards into the dresser and smush my model Firebolt 180. "Doesn't matter - they're out with Uncle Ron and Aunt Mione, aren't they?"

I began the strenuous process of picking my suspiciously-damp, blanket-laden self off of the hardwood and gave him a look. The look said "So what?"

"_Naturally - _" he said this as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. " - they'll be a bit tipsy when they come back, right? I mean, Dad at least. They didn't buy that bottle of Firewhiskey for show, Lil."

"Eugh!" I stuck out my tongue, pulling my patented I-just-ate-a-worm face. "I hate that!"

"What?" he laughed. "Hate what, Lil?"

"EUGH! LIL! I _hate _it when you call me Lil!"

"Hence," he winked, "Why I do it."

I flopped onto the bed in a huff, covering my head with the crochet floral blanket. Through one of the many holes, I watched as James eerily scuttled closer to me, waving his arms in a windmilling motion. What he said, as he lowered his levitating patootie onto my Winnie-the-Pooh sheets took me off guard.

"You're alright, though?"

I blinked up at him owlishly. There was concern in his voice - actual concern, not the false "No, I won't let Albus Vanish things from the china cabinet," "No, I won't let Lily fly my broom over the house," "No, I won't sneak out of the house at night to visit my friends in Devon" sort of way. Worry sparkled in his brown eyes, eyes that were the twins of mine.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I replied. And with him there, right now, looking so much like Mum and Dad all at once, it wasn't a lie. I decided not to tell him about the nightmare, and the long white fingers that I had actually felt pressed against my throat, crushing my windpipe. "Just fell out of bed."

He laughed, the lines of worry etched around his features easily melting away. "Maybe we should put you back in a crib then!"

"JAMES!" I shouted, swatting at him. He fluttered easily out of my way, making a practiced barrel-roll over me and onto the other side of my bed, where he hovered again, not touching the Tiggers and Eeyores that stretched out below him. "You're such a prat!"

He poked me. "I'm funny," he said mockingly, "And you know it. Because you're a pissy-pants baby who needs to sweep in a cwib."

I fell suddenly and absolutely silent, curling up beneath the crocheted flowers and hoping to sweet sweet Merlin that he hadn't actually noticed the suspicious dampness of my blanket.

"YOU DID PISS YOUR PANTS!" he shouted gleefully. "LILY PISSED HER PANTS!"

"I DID NOT!" I shrieked desperately, throwing the cover off of my head so I could scream at him more clearly. "I DIDN'T PEE MY PANTS! JAMES, YOU'RE A PRAT!"

"And you're a pants-pisser!" he crowed. "Merlin, you're almost _eleven _and you pissed your pants!"

Abruptly, he pushed off of the bed and made for the door. "I have to tell Albus! You pissed your bloody pants!"

I grabbed on to the closest thing I could reach - unfortunately not a large rock - and hurled it towards his head. He dodged easily - _stupid prat -_ and floated out the door and down the hall before I could extricate myself from the blankets.

"James!" I cried. There was more desperation than defiance in my voice now, and I ripped off the suspiciously damp pajamas, stuffing them under the bed. "James, I DIDN'T!"

"Hey, Albus." His annoyingly gleeful voice was muffled by the wall between mine and Albus' bedroom but I could still make it out. "Al - you won't believe it - Lily pissed her pants!"

"I DIDN'T!" I screamed back, rummaging in the chest of drawers for something that didn't have glitter or kittens on it. Merlin, sometimes I hate my Granny. "I DIDN'T, AL, HE'S LYING!"

Shoving myself into a blue flannel nighshirt I paused with my head halfway out one of the armholes to listen to James' replying holler of "YOU KNOW IT, LIL! YOU PISSED YOUR BLOODY PANTS! JUST ADMIT IT!"

Huffily, I retracted my head from the sleeve and put it through the right hole, somehow maneuvering the rest of myself into the relatively inoffensive garment. It was unisex and plaid, which is all that can be said for it.

_I will never admit to peeing my pants! _I thought, as my stupid prat brothers continued to giggle over my misfortune. Like always. _NEVER!_

I padded back to my bed, realizing that resistance was futile. I was dead tired, too, and my throat ached from where the quilt had tried to strangle me in the night. But as I lay back in my soft bed, flipping onto my left side and laying my stuffed Hungarian Horntail over my head to block out some of the noise of their jubilation, I wondered if I should have told James about the dream. _That _would probably have stopped them laughing. Not only that, but I was frightened. Frightened to go back to sleep. I'd had the dream before, and other ones as well.

But this one... this particular dream... it seemed so real. So hauntingly, absolutely real. I could actually feel the long, cold hands encircle my throat, hear the words that my faceless killer whispered into my ear. Long grass, damp with dew, tickled my legs. My eyes were pressed tightly shut against the heat of his musty breath, hot and repulsive against my cheek even in the balmy darkness of the summer's night. He held my neck gently at first, and his voice was calm, soothing in my ear. "Lily Luna Potter," he whispered, almost cordially. "We meet at last. I'd always wanted to come face to face with the daughter of the Boy Who Lived." As he said those words, his grip snapped painfully tight and my vision exploded with white stars. "Matter of fact," he whispered, voice low and scratched-sounding. His breath was always painfully hot in my ear, in contrast to those ice cold hands. "I'll be coming face to face with your father himself, soon enough. If I have my way." I always remained absolutely still. This was the worst part of the nightmare - my subconscious screaming at me to move, and my body not allowing me to. It was as though I had been petrified.

I always remained absolutely still. This was the worst part of the nightmare - my subconscious screaming at me to move, and my body not allowing me to. It was as though I had been petrified.

"And if I don't have my way," the voice continued, "Then I'll have your pretty little head in a jar." Then, he laughed - always the same laugh, mirthless and terrible. "Actually, no matter how this little experiment goes, I'll have your head in a jar. But you're going to help me get a start on my little collection before your time is over, Miss Lily Luna Potter."

I swallowed. There was no way I'd be wandering back into dreamland knowing that my imaginary Death Eater would be waiting for me. Flipping back over onto my right side, I slid a hand between the mattress and box-spring, where I'd stashed my Dad's well-worn copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One._ Opening the cover, I drew out my crumpled, well-read Hogwarts letter and perused the list again.

_**LILY LUNA POTTER**_

_**EAST-SIDE SEAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE**_

_**NUMBER 32 ELLINGSHIRE CRESCENT**_

_**OTTERY-St.-CATCHPOLE**_

_**ENGLAND**_

_**HOGWARTS SCHOOL**_

_**of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY**_

_**Headmaster: Filius Flitwick**_

_**(Order of Merlin, First Class, Hon. Veteran, **_

_**Services to the Greater Magical Community)**_

_**Dear Miss Potter,**_

_**We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.**_

_**Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.**_

_**Very Sincerely,**_

_**Septima Vector**_

_**Deputy Headmistress**_

_**Post Script: On behalf of all of the staff here at Hogwarts, please give our warmest regards to your father, Mr. Potter.**_

I quickly flipped the page. On the second sheet of yellowed parchment paper was the promised list of necessary books and assorted items; I devoured it with my eyes, despite already having memorized the list by heart.

_**HOGWARTS SCHOOL**_

_**of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY**_

_**UNIFORM**_

_**First year students require:**_

_**1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)**_

_**2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear**_

_**3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)**_

_**4. One winter cloak (black with silver fastenings)**_

_**Please note that all of the pupil's clothes should bear name-tags.**_

_**COURSE BOOKS**_

_**All students should have a copy of each of the following:**_

_**The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk**_

_**A Comprehensive Magical History by Andaccio Legace**_

_**Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling**_

_**A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch**_

_**One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore**_

_**Magical Drafts and Potions (2nd Edition) by Arsenius Jigger (ed. Iocanius Snowe)**_

_**Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander**_

_**Beginner's Defensive Theory: A Guide to Defeating the Dark Arts by Tremula Nott**_

_**Muggle Behaviour and Innovation Volume 1 by I. B. Guy**_

_**Please note: As of eleven school years previous, Muggle Studies has become a compulsive subject for first & second year students.**_

_**OTHER EQUIPMENT**_

_**1 wand**_

_**1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)**_

_**1 telescope**_

_**1 set brass scales**_

_**Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.**_

_**PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEAR STUDENTS ARE NOT PERMITTED TO HAVE THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS ON SCHOOL PROPERTY.**_

_**CONTRABAND ITEMS**_

_**The items appearing upon this list are STRICTLY PROHIBITED on school grounds and in all school buildings:**_

_**Any dangerous Muggle enchanted or unenchanted artifact (including weapons, fire-starting devices such as lyters, etc.)**_

_**Any bottle or flask of alcohol (Firewhiskey, Icewine, Muggle liqueurs, etc.) AND any cigarettes, cigars, pipes, etc.**_

_**Any item bearing the Dark Mark or other Death Eater-related insignia**_

_**Any authentic or replica Death Eater masks or full costumes**_

_**Any enchanted object classified as an example of "Black Magic" (as dictated under Section 7, p. 3 of the Magical Artifact Legislation)**_

_**Any of the books and pamphlets as listed on the Student Contraband Book List (as dictated by the Ministry for Magic)**_

_**PLEASE NOTE THAT HOGWARTS ADMINISTRATION HAS ENACTED A STRICT ZERO-TOLERANCE POLICY CONCERNING THE ABOVE ITEMS. CONTRABAND ITEMS WILL BE CONFISCATED DURING LUGGAGE CHECKS UPON ARRIVAL. THE CONTRABAND POLICY, ACTIVE FOR THE PAST 20 YEARS, IS IN PLACE TO MAINTAIN A SAFE AND NON-DISCRIMINATORY LEARNING ENVIRONMENT FOR ALL STUDENTS.**_

I stuffed the letter back inside the beaten leather spellbook and shoved the whole parcel back under the mattress. Looking out the window at the darkened sky, I wondered why morning couldn't come faster. I'd be Flooing to Diagon Alley the next morning - my first time visiting shops like Ollivander's - for my wand - and Madam Malkin's - for my school robes - and I almost peed myself again out of sheer excitement. What a day it'd be.

Course, I'd been to Diagon Alley before, but my Mum usually took James shopping for his school things while Dad, Albus and I sat in Florean Fortescue's, eating self-refilling banana splits. Dad could put away five or six in the couple hours it took for James and Mum to gather all of his supplies. _And _they were complementary.

Famous dads have perks, let me tell you.

An explosion of laughter interrupted my chocolate-and-vanilla daydreams.

"I DIDN'T PISS MYSELF!" I shrieked, with finality, before flipping back over and replacing the Hungarian Horntail stuffy on my head.

* * *

A/N: Yay! I've been working on this story for a long time now and I've finally decided to put this up! It's my first one so please tell me what you think! :)


	2. Dominique Weasley and the Curry Caper

Chapter One:

Dominique Weasley and the Chicken Curry

* * *

_"All of this would come back to haunt me harder than a poltergeist with a grudge." - Dominique Weasley_

* * *

It was going to be one of _those _days.

Mum was already crying, if you can believe it. I mean, you think she'd be used to this, really - what with me being in my seventh year, and Louis in his sixth. Dad had his firm arm wrapped around her shoulders tightly, but it wasn't stopping them from shaking up and down, nor her enchanted water-proof mascara from running down her face. She still looked great, though. Talk about aging gracefully... seriously, she gets almost exactly the same number of admiring looks as Victoire. And that's saying alot. Even with her mascara running, and her eyes red from weeping in her typically overblown manner, she put me to shame.

Not that I wasn't used to it. I grew up with Victoire for a sister, after all. An older sister. An older, perfect sister. An older, perfect, gorgeous sister.

My older, perfect, gorgeous sister wasn't paying too much attention to Mum. Or me. Or to the fact that Louis had, as usual, gone missing. Or anything else, for that matter. She was too busy standing locked in the embrace of her older, perfect, gorgeous boyfriend.

But I really couldn't be thinking about Vic right now. That would just bring up Ye Olde Inferioritie Complexe - and I _so _didn't need a visit from the beast of jealousy.

_Time for a mental pep-talk. It's my seventh year, _I told myself firmly. _My time to shine. My time to enjoy Hogwarts without worrying about Victoire's older, perfect, gorgeous shadow descending on me and casting me into a bottomless pit of despair and anger..._

Okay. So, maybe the mental pep-talk wasn't such a hot idea.

"OH GUILLAUME!" My mum wailed, interrupting my internal pity party. "MES PETITES ENFANTS M'ABANDONNENT!"

"Wee?" he replied, inquiringly. In the twenty years he'd been with my mother, literally zero French had rubbed off on him.

"My leetle babees! Zey are leaving me!" She gave a great sniff. "Zey are getting old, Beel! To have zeese old cheeldren, eet makes _me_ feel old! And see, my leetle Louis, 'ee ees meesing! He ees wit hees leetle friends, and has no time for 'ees poor muzzer!" With that, she broke into tears afresh.

"Ne t'enquietes pas, maman," I said, laying a hand on her tailored black jacket. "Tu sais que Louis t'aime bien."

Dad always gets this look on his face when we speak French. This look, as if he's suddenly Apparated into the middle of a group of trolls. Confused and frightened.

In lieu of tea to soothe his all-too-English nerves, I gave my best Elizabeth Bennet impression. "Nobody in Society should judge you, Papah, for not being able to parle francais - after all, it is a young lady's duty to be accomplished, and not a gentleman's."

He rolled his eyes.

"Never mind," I chuckled.

"Right," he said, never minding. "Now, I want you to promise a couple of things."

I nodded, with trepidation. There was no telling what I was getting myself into here. The guy was a curse-breaker in Egypt, he was like 1/16th werewolf, and was married to like 1/8th of a Veela. Not to mention the fact that he has _insane_ battle scars. All of Louis' friends want to be him.

"I want you to look out for your cousins, alright. And I mean, really look out for them. You know how scary first year can be."

"I know how scary _first years _can be," I amended, in an undertone.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Right, it _was _nothing. Really, I promised your Auntie Ginny you'd keep an eye on Lily Luna for her."

"Aunt Ginny _knows _I'll look out for Lily," I snorted. "I'm Head _Girl_, just in case I've somehow allowed you to forget."

He eyed the shining golden badge pinned to the lapel of my cherry-red jacket. It glinted cheerfully in the station's bright lights, bearing a maroon shield with a roaring golden lion emblazoned upon it, my name, and the engraved letters _Head Girl. _I mostly wore it so I could go up to ask First Years if they were lost and show them I wasn't some kind of perverted freak trying to steal them away to my underground torture chamber.

A tiny, tiny, tiny part of me wore it to rub it in that Victoire had never made E on her OWLs or on her NEWTS, never mind made Prefect, never _mind _made Head Girl.

I am a spiteful little shit.

Dad wasn't finished waving the Stick of Parenting at me. "That goes for Hugo, too, mind."

"Dad?" I interjected, eyebrows raised. "Head Girl?"

He smiled knowingly, a strange look for him because it crunched up all of his scars and made him look like some bark-faced tree monster. A tree monster with red hair. If this had been anyone else, I would have said as much. But it was my dad - this is Bill bloody Weasley we're talking about here - so I didn't. He's a bloody legend.

Haha. Kind of like _all of my relatives._

_"Oh, _chouchoutte," my mother said, giving another delicate sniff. Her face told me that she required my reassurance. "Ma petite Dominique, tu m'aime, non?"

"Mere, vous savez que je vous aimes - non, que je vous _adores_ biens - et j'essayerai d'ecrire chaque semaine..." I trailed off, gazing from the tear-streaked face of my forlorn (yet, somehow still more beautiful than I could ever hope to be) mother to the confused face of my father, who spoke French about as well as he spoke Hindi. "Non. J'essayerai de vous ecrires chaque _jour,_ maman, parce-que je sais que tu nous manqueras beaucoup... comme chaque annee..." I rolled my eyes, safe in the knowledge that Mum was too busy being broken up by early-onset Empty Nest Syndrome and that Dad had virtually no idea what was going on. "Et je promis de garder Louis. Et tous les autres. Et aussi je promis de gagner plus des Exceeds Expectations et des Outstandings sur mes NEWTS."

I kissed her cheek, and she seemed to quiet down a little. It's always the same story with her - sometimes I feel more like the parent. Sure, she's got inner strength, but it'd take a lot more than her children going to boarding school for a year to bring it out. It's probably why I'm such a Daddy's-girl - there's something reassuring about being taken care of.

"I love you too?" the man in question chuckled, after a moment.

Merlin, I love that big lug. Biting my lip, I threw herself forwards into my dad's strong embrace. "I love you, Daddy," I whispered into the green fabric of his jacket. It smelled like cologne and woodsmoke, and I took a long drag of it. Maybe some would make it to Hogwarts on my own red coat.

"You'll be home soon enough, sweetheart," he replied, and I felt him kissing the top of my braid. "In three months, we'll be having a real Weasley Christmas at the Burrow. Come to think of it, Granny's probably already started the cooking."

I felt him plant his scarred lips against my hair a second time before he pulled away and pushed me out at arm's length. "It's your last year," he laughed. "Try not to mope too much about missing your dull-as-dirt old father."

I rolled my eyes, again - it's kind of my thing.

"I promise not to spend every minute of the day weeping. It'll be hard," I smiled. "But I'll try."

"Smartmouth."

"Old fart."

"Goodbye, princess," he chuckled.

My mother smiled at me, a watery smile, and I knew that her tears weren't show. Or... at least, they weren't _all _show. She'd pulled out a handkerchief and was swiping the mascara from under her eyes, so I knew she'd be alright.

I stepped back towards my jumble of trunks and raised a single mittened hand in salute. Grabbing the handle of the luggage cart, I turned quickly towards the dingy coffee shop opposite so that my father wouldn't see the real tears that stung at my eyes.

_Crapbeetles! _I thought, swiping at my traitorous eyes with one cherry-red knitted glove. Like pretty much everything else my Granny'd ever knitted for me, it had a gigantic golden D stitched onto the back. Gryffindor pride if I've ever seen it.

Then, once my tears were sufficiently swiped, I laughed. I laughed because my family's the weirdest in the world. I laughed because I like it that way.

There was a dark-skinned bloke sitting at my usual table outside of the coffee shop. Coming up just a scootch closer, I could see that he had glossy black hair, longish in the I-do-outdoor-manly-things-so-you-women-just-go-in-and-knit-for-a-while-I'll-light-the-fire-by-rubbing-two-sticks-together sort of way. A conspicuous Quidditchy-looking magazine was propped open on the table in front of him, and it looked like he was trying to hide the moving pictures from Muggle passers-by by leaning over. He was doing a shit job. I could see the blazing orange uniform of the Chudley Cannons Seeker from my post by the trash bin.

I was just beginning to prickle with indignation when I suddenly noticed the large, white tupperware sitting on the table before him. The fact that he was ostensibly a black guy with longish, glossy hair should probably have clued me in, but I've never pretended to be all that observant.

My lips curled up into a devious smile.

Quietly as I could, I snuck up behind his chair. He didn't turn my way, but still, I held my breath as I leaned down to ear level.

"Excuse me, sir..." I whispered, adding a creepy tremble to my tone. "But... are you a _black?_"

He jumped about six feet off the chair, swore, and hit me in the face with the magazine. We collapsed into chairs opposite one another, shaking with laughter.

"Seriously," Buck managed, once we'd sufficiently calmed down. His grin revealed a mouthful of large even teeth, blindingly white. "One day, you're going to say that to the wrong bloke. And you're going to get a face full of knuckles."

"_You're _the wrong bloke," I spluttered, giggling nonsensically. (I'd been known to reply to the remark _"That's a nice shade of navy"_ with _"You're a nice shade of navy."_ Not terribly creative, but it works for me.)

"Excuse me!" he piped, in the strong rollicking accent of his 93-year-old Dida. The scent of her delicious chicken curry wafted towards me from the tupperware, and I felt my saliva glands kick into high gear. "But, I do believe that I have the misfortune of being of mixed heritage. The ladies just cannot keep their hands off of me."

"Yeah. You're drop-dead gorgeous," I replied, voice dripping. I utilized my trademark eyeroll to full effect.

That was sarcasm, clearly. But in a way, it wasn't. I watched as he rolled up the Quidditch magazine into a thin cylinder and slid it into his battered green rucksack. He had a wide mouth, a long nose, a solid manly-type jaw, thick black eyebrows that adorned his forehead in straight bands, and deep-set eyes. But they were the precise shade of freshly brewed coffee, and his skin was a buttery toffee-colour. I suspected his inky hair would have been soft, if I ever were to touch it.

His Dida made the arsekickingest chicken curry of any old Indian lady I know. He was, of course, the funniest, brightest person I'd ever met. And he was _my friend._ That's what always got me. That this biracial Quidditch god with the long nose and the great-grandmother was friends with me.

I'm not even sure how shit like that happens. I mean, we're talking about _me, _here. Middle child of a random Weasley brother (by random, I mean not Uncle Ron), second daughter, second best, the whole deal. I didn't even get the Weasley hair. Nope. My sister is blessed with the Delacour Seduction Coiffure and my brother with the Weasley Mane. I got a cross. Imagine that oatmeal could barf. Picture the colour of that barf. Now impose it, texture and all, onto my head. Just like that.

Attractive, yeah?

He looked up from biting his thumbnail with an amused expression. "Staring? Maybe I am gorgeous after all."

"No. I was mesmerized by the disgusting way you were biting your fingernail."

He was too polite to spit the nail shards out of his mouth in front of me, and I pitied him having to swallow them. Licking the bowl of a toilet in the public loo is apparently less likely to give you a disease than biting your fingernails. I could recall Aunt Mione telling Louis that when he was little. It made him cry.

Of course, that was before Aunt Mione'd had any kids of her own. I still couldn't help but pity Hugo and Rose, just a smidge.

Then, I thought of my own mum, the Waterworks, and I went back to pitying myself.

"Crack open the curry, would you? Seriously," I added, "The smell is killing my heart. Just a little."

Gripping the large white tupperware by one plastic handle, he pulled it towards him and pulled off the lid. Another powerful whiff of chicken curry deliciousness hit me and I leaned back, letting the nosegasm wash over me.

He raised his eyebrows. "Have you got the spoons?"

I raised mine back, albeit with more sass. "Of _course _I've got the spoons."

Reaching into the pocket of my cherry-red jacket, I drew out the cutlery and fanned the two utensils out between us. He plucked one from between my fingers and stuck it right into the tupperware.

"Manners, Buck? Where were you over the summer, living with wolves?"

He placed the spoon in his mouth and withdrew it with finesse. "No," he replied, around a mouthful of whatever it is that you put into chicken curry, besides chicken and curry, "With my family." His brows drew together. "So I suppose, yeah, I was living with wolves."

I sighed. "My family makes your family look normal."

With a wily little grin I pushed my own spoon into the tupperware and took a bite - forget nosegasm, my tastebuds practically exploded. No - actually, they _did _explode.

He pointed his spoon at me. "You've never seen Trick and my mom together at a sidewalk sale." Shaking his head, he affected a tone of deep, abiding horror. "The carnage... the devastating bloodshed..."

Licking the spoon pensively, I paused only to reply "Bet they got some great deals."

"Yeah," he laughed, sticking his spoon back into that brown lake of delight. "Because the saleswoman was scared to death of them."

I didn't get a chance to respond to this with another of my patented witticisms because I was in the process of trying to swallow a painfully large chicken chunk. Lost in ecstasy, I hadn't been paying attention to some important things, like chewing or breathing for example. A brief look of alarm flashed across his features as he watched me turn red, white, purple, red and then flesh-coloured again.

"Water?" he asked, when I was finished almost dying.

I swallowed again and then grimaced in pain. "Yeah. That might be nice."

While he was over at the dingy coffee-shop counter, I looked longingly at the chicken curry and seriously considered taking another huge bite. My good sense quashed the thought. I couldn't quite recall when the tupperware had gotten to be so empty, and this was probably a bad thing.

Buck set a bottle of Evian in front of me and I ripped off the cap. He tipped back his chair and watched me sip delicately at the water, in a conscious effort not to choke again and actually die.

"You said you had a surprise?" I asked, wiping a bead of water from my chin with a tinge of mortification.

He smiled, again displaying his white, even teeth. "I do."

"And you're not going to tell me yet, are you?"

"I'm not. Very perceptive," he added. After a second's pause, he changed the subject. "I've been thinking about Quidditch."

"Quafflehead," I muttered.

He rolled his eyes. It's kind of his thing too, but I'm pretty sure I started it. "Where's your Gryffindor pride? I lost Bentley - and Jenn Myler. Shit. I'd forgot her... You don't happen to know of any brilliant Chasers, do you?"

"Mirkwater?" I attempted, eyeing the chicken. Somehow, I managed to stop myself from yanking it out of his hands as he resealed the tupperware and slid it into his rucksack. I impressed myself with my own restraint.

Buck gave me a flat look. "A _Gryffindor _Chaser, Dom. Good Ganesh." I made a sorry face, but he must have sensed that I was about to change topics, because his voice jumped in right over top of mine. "I was thinking about Ursula."

I blinked incredulously. "Ursula? Ursula _Longbottom?"_

"Yeah," he said. For some unfathomable reason, he actually didn't seem to know what I was talking about. "Why? What's wrong with her? Sure, she's second year, but we - "

"Buck!" I cut in, eyes wide. "She blew up the Charms classroom last year! Professor Merton was in hospital for a _week!" _

"She didn't mean to."

"Yes!" I cried, perhaps a touch too emphatically. I realized that a dirty little heap sitting by the recycling, which I had thought to be someone's misplaced rags, was actually a person, because this person had turned to glare intently at me. "Precisely! She was trying to levitate _a cushion!_ "

He snickered.

"Be serious," I sighed. "If she tries to use her wand on the field somebody could really get hurt!"

He snickered again.

"Well, forgive me for trying to keep my students in one piece," I said sniffily. "I _am _Head Girl, you know."

"Yeah. I know, and I never seem to hear the end of it." The way he said this was odd, and it made me watch him closely as he stuck his hand deep into his jeans pocket as though fingering something, smiling a secret smile. "Which brings me to the surprise."

"Did... did you buy me a present? A congratulations for being Head Girl? Oh! Oh!" I cried. "A chocolate Gryffindor lion?"

"Pff. No."

I thought for a moment, and then giggled "A life-size chocolate Flitwick?"

"I wish," he said. There was something nervous about his demeanor, which indicated to me that there was probably nothing in it to do with chocolate. "Take that up with your uncle - new attraction for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes."

I clung to the table, desperately trying not to pee myself as I imagined Chocolate Flitwick trying to put WWW's shop-goers in detention. And failing. As usual.

Buck looked at me in that blank, serious manner that he affected when he was being especially funny. "I'd buy one."

"So would I," I wheezed, finally managing to get myself under control. "That would bebrilliant!"

"Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with chocolate."

Reaching his hand into his pocket again, he drew out a small, shiny object and deposited it into my palm.

It was a pin, identical to mine. Written beneath the shining golden lion, in possibly the tiniest, most unreadable font I'd ever seen, was _Bhaskara-Badrinath-Chandrakant Thomas, Head Boy. (_Please don't ask me to write that out again.)

"Yeah," he said, looking down at the miniscule print, "I'd've preferred _Buck._ But what can you do."

I looked from Buck, to the pin, to Buck, to the pin, and then to Buck. "You're Head Boy?"

He nodded warily.

"You're_ Head Boy!_" I shrieked. "Merlin - Buck - that's _brilliant!" _

It was then that it happened. Had this been anyone else, I would've literally jumped across the table to tackle them in a hug - but something about bear-hugging him seemed strange. He was looking at me across the table, smiling, perhaps a bit expectant. It happened at precisely the moment he reached across the table to retrieve the pin; when his fingers skimmed my palm I felt a shock of electricity, like a lightning bolt, rip into my flesh.

Okay. I know that has to sound over-dramatic. I mean _seriously? _A fingertip skim? A lightning bolt? This could only sound more cliche if I added the word "magical" in there somewhere.

But I have enough self-respect that I wouldn't be saying this to you if it hadn't really, actually, 100% and a half happened. And it was totally weird, because we'd touched hands before - passing decanters of Pumpkin Juice, high-fiving after incredible Quidditch matches, sweeping up the pot in the Brew Players' Guild annual tournament, crossing forks on our other Beginning-of-Year chicken curry dates - and it had _never _felt like this before.

I shook it off at the time, pretending like nothing had happened. I mean, he was shuffling socks around in his rucksack to make more room for the tupperware. _And _he had an odious girlfriend. (My judgement is impartial despite the fact that I wanted to hex her into a dripping pile of mucous - _everybody _thought Sheila was odious).

"Twain?" he mumbled around the base of his wand, which he'd stuck in his mouth for safekeeping.

I blinked a couple of times before coming to. "Yeah," I replied, throwing my mittens on top of my loaded baggage trolley. "Yeah, we'd better go - I bet Vector'll have something to say to us..."

Laughing, he grabbed his own trolley with one hand and maneuvered it out of the jungle of tables and chairs, making quick time towards the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10. I took after him at top speed, readjusting my Head Girl pin on the lapel of my red jacket as I did so. Soon enough, the whole electric-finger-brush incident had been forgotten.

Shaking it off, though it made sense at the time, was probably my first mistake, because all of this would come back to haunt me harder than a poltergeist with a grudge. If only I'd known the grief this would cause me, the angst-filled estrogeny nights of eating pralines with Jane in the girls' dorms, not to mention the Christmas debacle, I would've stopped him right there and demanded to know if he'd been rubbing his socks on a carpet somewhere.

* * *

A/N: Just to clear up any confusion resulting from the shift of POV the story is narrated primarily by Lily, with some alternating chapters narrated in Dominique's POV and James' POV. Albus and Scorpius Malfoy will hopefully narrate three or so chapters each, with one bonus chapter narrated by Victoire (I couldn't resist - she's too funny) somewhere in the middle, just for giggles. It might be confusing but the chapter title (and the text I hope!) will reveal who's narrating. I think it's more interesting to change it up - plus there are so many canon next gens and I want to play with them all! MUAHAHAHA! Please let me know what you think :)


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